


If You Will

by likeadeuce



Series: Butch & Sundance [2]
Category: Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
Genre: M/M, Yuletide 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-02
Updated: 2009-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-04 03:05:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/pseuds/likeadeuce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Butch: They can't follow us. We're safe. <br/>Sundance: You really think so? <br/>Butch: I will if you will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Will

Etta had been gone for a month, and it was almost that long since Butch and Sundance had been out of the jungle. They were hitting payroll guards, riding from the city to the mountains. Towns were too dangerous now; the banks were all too-well guarded. The low-hanging fruit of the early days was gone, and Sundance knew they had done it to themselves. They'd been too successful, unable to believe that the careless bounty of South America would ever dry up on them.

Sundance was trying to think about those -- the good old days, when they were rich and it was easy -- but he couldn't settle on a single happy memory. Etta would have laughed and come up with a long explanation, involving his personal psychological deficiencies and a lot of ten-cent words. "You're no better at nostalgia than you are at optimism," he imagined her saying. "You always paint the past as black as you expect the future to be."

"Well, what do you expect," he muttered back at her. "I gotta make up for him."

"What's that you said, Kid?" Butch asked. He nudged a heel into his horse and guided it across the low-running stream.

"I said, 'That's an interesting story, Butch,'" Sundance lied, urging his own mare to follow, keeping an eye out for movement in the jungle landscape.

"You're a liar," Butch answered, his face scrunching into that wounded and maddeningly innocent look he could get when the world failed to appreciate his genius, which was often. "You don't have the first idea what I was talking about."

"Utah," Sundance shot back. "Your carefree youth." A story that probably didn't have even a nodding acquaintance with the truth. But you didn't listen to Butch talk for a lesson in the way things really were. If growing up in Utah had been so great, Butch wouldn't have tore out of there as soon as he was old enough to find his own way.

The reply was enough to satisfy Butch, though, or at least to encourage him to return to his story. "I ever tell you about the man who taught me to steal a horse? Fella name of Mike Cassidy."

"Kin of yours?" Sundance lowered his voice, and maneuvered the horse into place underneath a tree. It was a good vantage point, provided enough cover that they'd be able to see the payroll coming before the men saw them.

Butch pulled in beside him, then backed up a little behind him. They shouldn't have to shoot at anyone in a routine stickup; the reputation of the bandidos yanquis ought to be enough. But if anybody needed shooting-at, they both knew Sundance was the one to do it.

"Not kin," Butch said. "I told you, my birth name was Parker."

"Doesn't mean he couldn't be kin." Sundance had never asked where the 'Cassidy' name came from. Most of the men he knew called themselves what they wanted to be called if they were lucky, what other people had decided to call them if they weren't. He shifted to look at Butch. "This Cassidy guy must have been something if you named yourself after him."

"He was a hand on my Pa's ranch. Been a lot of places, seen a lot of things. He taught me how to steal a horse." Butch scratched his neck and turned to spit on the ground. Not a gesture of contempt, more like he was avoiding the other man's gaze for some reason. "Taught me a lot of things."

"So you guys run off together? Was he in your first gang?"

"Gang? Nah. He ran off to Mexico. I got the idea he really wanted to go straight. But working on another man's land, there was too much temptation. He just rustled a little on the side, understand. Showed me the ropes that way. But he never ripped Pa off, 'cause Pa trusted him. Nothing worse for a born horse thief than a man who trusts him. He went off to Mexico to get some land of his own. Sent me a letter one time. When I went out on my own, I started using the name Cassidy." Butch grinned. "When I started to get a reputation, get in the papers, I always thought -- well, that's nice. Maybe Mike'll read about us in some Mexican paper, notice the name, and see that all his teaching did some good."

"You reckon he's still in Mexico?"

"I reckon. Had the makings of a good rancher, too, if he just got started out right. I bet ya he got all settled in Mexico, did pretty well for himself."

"That's great, that's wonderful. You've got a good friend and mentor all successful and settled down on a ranch in Mexico."

"Yup."

"That's great, Butch. That's wonderful, that's. . .why the hell are we in Bolivia?"

Butch blinked, looked at him for a long beat, and said, "We're fugitives. His name's Cassidy. Isn't it obvious that's the first place they're gonna look?"

Sundance opened his mouth to answer, then snapped it shut again. There were so many things he could say now, starting with, How is your friend supposed to look at a Mexican newspaper and recognize you as Butch Cassidy when all he'll remember is a kind named Robert Leroy Parker? But as much as Etta thought the two of them squabbled, she never understood that, for every argument they had, there were half a dozen that Sundance let his partner win before they even started.

"Keep thinkin', Butch." Sundance shifted in his saddle. "That's what you're good at."

They sat in silence for a while, watching the path that the Cielo Mining payroll should be taking up the mountain. "I didn't blame him for leaving," Butch said after a while.

"That's big of you," Sundance answered.

"He did what he needed to do."

Then a thought struck Sundance, a terrible thought, and he turned slowly toward Butch. "Please tell me that you are not, in your own completely unqualified way, attempting to give me romantical advice."

Butch nodded, like a heifer ruminating over its cud, and spit again. "We all miss Etta." As though there were hundreds of people lined up behind them, quietly morning Miss Place's regrettable decision to go back to America while she could still salvage some kind of life.

"'All' meaning, you, me, and the stolen horses?"

Sundance could see the hurt-puppy look returning to his partner's face, but before he had time to decide if he fel bad about it, an echo of Spanish voices moved ino the clearing. Butch nodded in the direction of the approaching payroll guards. Sundance nudged his horse into the open, holding out his gun.

"Manos arribas!"

*

There was only one way that Sundance could figure in which Butch Cassidy was a practical man: he preferred easy jobs. Ones where just the threat of the Kid's pointed gun, and the reputation of los bandidos yanquis was enough to induce the guards to surrender their cargo. Sundance, truthfully, preferred it when he at least got to fire a warning shot. It made him feel as though his skills were needed, since he had been born without Butch's ability seemingly to charm the money off of his targets.

At first, this seemed to be one of those holdups Butch would be able to pull off on pure charisma. There were only three men, and two of them actually laughed with Butch as they handed over their bags. They spoke no English, and Butch's Spanish wasn't much better. But based on hand gestures, it was evident that they regretted not having a camera to capture the moment. To Sundance, this meant one of three things: it wasn't that much money, they didn't fear the wrath of their bosses because they had planned to steal it themselves, or this was a trap.

Sundance was, in fact, a gambling man, and he would have laid odds on the second. Particularly when he got a look at the third guard, a skinny kid who hung back a little from the others, his eyes narrowed at Butch's back. Sundance focused the gun mostly on him, flicking it occasionally at one of the others for the sake of form. But they weren't going to try anything.

The job almost went smooth. Butch was tying the loot onto Sundance's saddlebag, the two good-natured guards were waving him good-bye, when Sundance saw the skinny guy reach into his coat.

Sundance shot the young guard in the hand. He screamed, his pistol discharged, and went flying into the air. The whiz of a bullet flew somewhere too close to Sundance's ear. Butch's horse took off, right at the two uninjured guards, who threw themsevles on the ground. Sundance reached for Butch's arm, and helped lift him into the saddle. They took off in the direction of freedom: Butch guiding the horse, Sundance turned behind him, shooting at a treebranch right above the men, so they didn't get any ideas.

Not that they would. They were too busy dodging the spooked animals, or screaming in pain.

Butch had stolen a good horse, and plotted the robbery so that they had a clear, fast line of escape. They didn't slow down until they'd put a couple miles behind them, and even then Sundance didn't stop looking back.

"We're safe," Butch said, after a while. "They got no reason to follow us."

"That's because you left most of the money. And a horse that was worth more than we stole."

"We can steal another one," Butch said philosophically. Then, "You didn't have to shoot him. I don't like shooting."

"Well, I don't like getting shot."

"He was a kid."

"So the hell what? I was a kid when I started gunslinging. Hence the nickname. Sundance Kid."

He heard the frown in Butch's voice. "I just don't like shooting. Only time I ever shot anybody was when we decided to be payroll guards."

"I know," Sundance said quietly.

"We can steal a better horse when we get to Tres Cruces. We oughta have the horses trained, you know, so they don't spook. Mike Cassidy, who I was telling you about before, he had a way of training a horse so you could shoot a gun in the air, right in front of its face and it wouldn't move."

"Did he teach you?"

"I watched him do it a few times. . ."

"Sounds like he didn't teach you much."

Butch grunted. Sundance kept looking out behind them.

"I hate the jungle," Butch said.

*

It was getting dark, and the horse was getting tired.

They were following an overgrown livestock path, one that hadn't been used for years, from the looks of it, but you could still see where the sheep and goats had been. There was a stone structure, with the door collapsed and holes in the roof, but gave a little shelter, even let them make a fire without giving themselves away to everyone for miles. Not that they had anything to cook, just dry jerky and a little bread in their bags. But making it gave them something to do, and a short-term satisfaction as they sat in front of it.

They sat quietly for a while, and Sundance watched Butch's face in the firelight. "Were you aiming for his gun?" Butch asked.

Sundance sighed. "Sure."

"You were aiming for his gun, you hit his hand." Butch looked at him across the fire. "You weren't aiming to kill and missed," he said flatly.

"I was aiming for his hand, all right? You know how you can tell that? Because I hit his goddamn hand."

"All right." Butch raised his own hands in a gesture of surrender. "I got faith in you, Kid, but you know I don't like shooting."

"I know!" Sundance vaulted to his feet. "You don't like shooting, you don't like jungles. You know what I don't like? Running."

When Butch stood up, his body unfolded slowly, as though to contrast his partner's sudden motion. "You hate running," he repeated, then shook with a deep-bellied laugh. "Kid, we're outlaws. If you don't like running. . ." The laughter hit him again, and he wiped an eye with the back of his hand. "Why the hell are we in Bolivia? If we were gonna give up, we could have done it in Denver."

"It ain't funny! And I didn't mean give up. I meant we should. . .we oughta. . .at some point we have to. . ." Sundance swallowed. "Make a stand. We can keep running, let the world get smaller around us or we can choose our ground and make a stand. Lots of outlaws have done it."

"Like who? Billy the Kid? Hunted down by the sheriff, shot in his own bedroom. John Wesley Hardin? Killed in a saloon. Jesse James? Why, old Jesse, he's my favorite. Shot in the back while he was hanging a picture. By a member of his own gang, a man he trusted." Butch stepped toward him and for a moment his eyes moved into the shadow. "Kid, this may not be the life I dreamed of when I left the farm in Utah. But one thing I know, I'm not gonna die like Jesse James."

"You so sure of that?"

"Oh, I'm sure." He stepped forward and put a hand on Sundance's shoulder. "Cause you're the only man left for me to trust, and I'm sure of you."

Sundance rolled his head back so he didn't have to look in Butch's eyes. "We're gonna die here, Butch. Etta knew it. That's why she left."

"Ain't no call to talk about Etta."

"I reckon I can talk about my woman if I want to."

"She ain't your woman no more," Butch said softly. "If she were, she'd be here. Sorry to say it so blunt, but I figure we gotta face it one of these days. Anyhow. We didn't die today. That's something." He shrugged, stepped back, and flipped off his hat to run a hand over his sweaty hair. Then he started to laugh again.

"What?"

Butch held the hat out in the firelight. Sundance didn't get it at first, then Butch reached out and stuck his finger in a small hole near the crown. He wiggled it. "That boy's gun went off when you shot at him. Had to come down somewhere, right?" Sundance snatched the hat, put his own finger through the hole, and stared.

He threw the hat down. He could see it all vividly, as though it had happened. The bullet off by a fraction of an inch, blood blossoming out of Butch's forehead and surging from his mouth as he looked up with the blank eyes of a dead man.

Butch laughed.

Sundance felt his hands tighten on Butch's shoulders. Before he knew what he was doing, he had taken the other man and slammed his back against the well. "Don't laugh!"

"All right, kid. Sure." Butch nodded vigorously, staring into Sundance's eyes. Then he cracked up again.

"It's not funny!" Sundance would have killed them all, of course. He would have put a bullet between each guard's eyes, including the two smiling men who had nothing to do with it. But it wouldn't have given him anything that mattered. It would have left him with a body to carry, to bury, would have left him with nothing, and he knew in that moment this was the one possibility he had never considered, never thought of how to live with. He had no idea how he could have gone on without Butch. "Goddammit! Not funny!" he shouted. Butch was just laughing harder, now, the tremors in his body echoing against Sundance.

And suddenly, he wasn't laughing. Suddenly, he couldn't laugh, because Sundance's mouth was covering his. His lips were touching, sucking, pressing against the other man's. Sundance kept up the motion, but it took him a while to realize what he was doing, to come up with the word for it --

Kissing. He and Butch were kissing. It was the thought of the word, not anything in the contact itself, that made Sundance pull up short.

He moved his head back, giving Butch enough space to look him in the eye. But their bodies didn't move, their bodies were pressed together.

Butch wasn't laughing now. "What the hell was that?" he said. Not laughing. Grinning. Butch Cassidy, the grinningest sonofabitch Sundance had met on two continents. He knew exactly what the hell it was.

"You know exactly what the hell it is," Sundance hissed.

"I surely do," Butch agreed. "I was wondering what the hell took you so long to realize it."

"Why. . .you. . ." But this wasn't the place for words. Sundance wasn't the talker, anyway. Butch was the talker, and he made it pretty clear there wasn't anything that needed saying. He let Sundance rip off his shirt and jacket, took care of the trousers himself. They threw their clothes on the dirt floor and Sundance pushed Butch down to lie on top of their jackets. They had oil, for the saddles; Sundance poured it over his fingers and he let those do the job, smoothing Butch up for him. "You done this before?" Sundance grunted.

"I told you Mike Cassidy taught me a lot of things."

"Way more than I needed to know," Sundance grunted. Butch just grinned up at him. Sundance straddled him, and pushed inside. They looked in each others' eyes the whole time. He pressed into Butch, and Butch's prick rubbed against his thigh. When Sundance was finished, he rose up a little, reached down to touch Butch, and gave a few smooth jerks until Butch came, too.

Sundance rubbed his hand against the ground. "Ain't so funny now, huh, you son of a bitch."

Butch looked up at him, and laughed.

*

The night had grown colder, and they were back in their clothes. Butch's horse had taken off with one of the bedrolls, so Sundance spread a single wool blanket over both their legs. They sat close but not touching, looking into the fire.

"I met Bobby Ford once, you know," Butch said.

"Fella who killed Jesse James?" Remembering the words of the popular song, he added, "The dirty little coward? Before or after?"

"Few years after. That's why I remember. I was young. Rustling here and there, trying to figure out what to do with myself. Happened to be in Colorado, and heard Bob Ford had opened a saloon over in Creed. Curiosity and idleness got the best of me, thought I'd go see what the man was like."

"And?"

Butch shrugged. "He was just a man. Same as any other. Don't rightly know what I expected. Just an ordinary-looking man. Thought I'd be daring and ask him what it felt like, being alive when Jesse was dead." He looked back at the fire.

The silence stretched out until Sundance prodded, "Well, did you?"

"Nah. Didn't need to. Or didn't get the chance. I walked into the saloon, he was already talking about it. Only thing he ever did talk about, near as I could tell. Can you picture it? Shoot your friend in the back and dine out on in for the rest of your life." Butch shook his head. "I ended up feeling sorry for him."

"Well, he got shot himself eventually," Sundance remembered. "A lot of people figured it was payback."

Butch laughed. "Payback for somethin', maybe. Anybody who woulda shot him over Jesse was already in the ground. With the lives we lead, Kid, all of us are gonna run into payback someday for somethin'. That wasn't why I felt sorry for him. No, I was listening to this man who was never gonna do another thing that mattered on this Earth, because the only thing in his life anyone was ever gonna care about he did years ago." He shook his head. "When I walked in there, I thought I might shoot him myself. By the time I'd been in there ten minutes, I realized I didn't want to be any kind of killer."

"I told you, Butch, I was aiming for his hand."

"I know that. That's not why I was telling the story. I just been thinking about him a lot. You know who else I been thinking about?"

"Teddy Roosevelt?" Sundance guessed, because it seemed like he was supposed to say something.

"Young Woodcock," Butch answered. "The railroad man. Remember him? I liked that man. Woodcock."

"Yeah. I remember. I remember you showing him how much you liked him by blowing him up when he wouldn't let us into the safe."

"Oh, I didn't hurt him none!"

Sundance had caught a glimpse of the burns on the side of the young man's face and arms. He wondered if Butch hadn't seen those, or if he just hadn't looked. "Sure. You didn't hurt him. You were just doing your job."

"That's right. I did my job, and he did his. And -- you talk about making a stand, Kid? Young Woodcock was the only man I ever knew who made a stand. I reckon he was sort of a hero."

"Oh, you reckon?"

"Yeah. And I reckon if you and me were the kind of men born to make stands, we'd be working for railroads instead of robbing them."

Sundance leaned forward and took a long look at Butch. Finally, it was his turn to laugh. "After all this time, this is what you decide? You wish you could switch places with a railroad man."

"I don't believe I ever said that. Exactly the opposite. The way I look at it, we all end up exactly where we're supposed to be." He started to count out on his fingers. "Me. Woodcock. Bobby Ford, Jesse James. Mike Cassidy on his ranch down in Mexico. Maybe even Etta." He reached out and put a hand on Sundance's shoulder. "Maybe even you."

It was the first time they'd touched since getting dressed and coming back to the fire. Sundance realized, then, that they weren't going to talk about what they'd done. They didn't need to talk about it. It was enough that it just was. He put his hand over Butch's hand, then reached to touch his partner's head and bring it back to lean on his shoulder. "Maybe even me," Sundance said softly. "So tell me." His fingers ran over Butch's hair. "What are we going to do next?"

In a sleepy voice, Butch answered, "I'm glad you asked. I've been thinking. . ."

"Oh no."

". . .and it all comes down to one word. Patagonia."

"No way. Not going to Patagonia. South America is bad enough."

"Patagonia is South America, numbskull. It's Argentina."

"Well, why didn't you say Argentina?"

"Do you know what Argentina means? It means 'land of silver.' You know what they're building in Argentina? A trans-Patagonia railroad. We could be the first men to pull the first train job in Patagonia. Trains," he repeated. "No more jungles."

Sundance yawned. "Two men can't pull a train job. We'd have to have a gang."

"Well, then we get a gang. We got plenty of time."

"How much time you talking about?"

"They start laying track around next month. Two years or so. . ."

"Two years?! Your plan is that we pull a job with a gang we don't have on a railroad that ain't gonna exist for two years?"

"Never hurt anybody to plan for the long term." He rolled his head back against Sundance's shoulder, and the gleam in his eye was more than just a reflection of the flame.

There were a lot of things Sundance could have said: that if there were ever two men who had no business planning in the long term, it was the two of them right here and now. That Etta had good sense and she loved them both and she wouldn't have left except that she couldn't bear to see them die. That they were never going to live to see the Trans-Patagonia Railroad, or to get together another gang, and that whatever had happened to Butch's old friend Mike Cassidy, it didn't involve settling down peacefully on a ranch in Mexico. Those were all things Sundance could have said, but he understood in that moment, like he never had before, that he wouldn't be telling Butch anything Butch didn't already know.

Sundance wrapped his arm around Butch's waist, kissed the top of his head, and pulled him closer to save the warmth from the dying fire. "Keep thinking, Butch," he said. "That's what you're good at."


End file.
